Let It Go
by meggalomania
Summary: In which John experiences his last days after battling a terminal illness. My first shot at fanfic, constructive criticism would be much appreciated. Somewhat inspired by Before I Die by Jenny Downham.


A weak sun pulses through mottled clouds. Here, you realize it is small moments like this that you will miss the most. It is the first cup of tea in the morning, the sound of rain when you're drifting to sleep. It is the way his heart beats just out of sync with yours; it is the little things that are the most meaningful.

Let them go.

With some effort, your eyes drift from friend to friend. Mrs. Hudson flaps around with a thermos of tea and milk, and you find some strength in the normality of that act. The cake, sat on a weather-beaten picnic table, puzzles you for a moment, until you remember that it is your own. It is your birthday, that's right. Your very last before this illness claims you.

This golden leafed park seems the perfect place to hold a somber celebration. It is autumn, and like you, foliage and flowers are withering, getting ready to say goodbye. Harry has made it down from Surrey with her new girlfriend. There is something in the way they hold each others gazes that makes you convinced that this is not just a quick fling. She tells you that she's happier than she has been in a long time, and you believe her. You tell her that you love her, that you are lucky to have had a sister.

Let her go.

They're all here, everyone that means so much to you. It saddens you that the next time they will be together like this will be at your funeral. In some ways, you're glad that you will not be there to see them in pain. You hate seeing them cry. When Molly comes up to you, she tries her best, but only five minutes into your conversation she leaves, in tears. 'Molly,' you call to her, in the boldest voice you can manage. 'Look after him for me.' You know she will.

Let her go.

There is a blur of colours and wind and next you are lying in your bed. Like an impressionist painting, your canvas is becoming more smudged as time unravels. The floorboards creak as Mycroft enters the room. You are glad you can still appreciate noises like that.

'John… I'm sorry I couldn't make it…'

The words enter your mind disjoined but you put them together slowly. Your mind is failing along with your body but you are glad you can still find some sense.

'I… just wanted to say… you're the best thing that could have happened to him.'

You're not sure if it's raining inside or if Mycroft is crying or both but you don't like it. It's not right, not natural. Make it stop.

The words you use to reply with are weak like recycled tealeaves.

'You're a great brother, Mycroft Holmes.'

You're sure he keep both eyes on Sherlock when you are gone. With that in mind, let him go.

There are few people left for you to let go of now. This is just as well, as your memories are dying along with your body.

Your mother scolds you for bringing home a baby bird you found, fallen from its nest, on the way home from school. When she's finished with stern words, she brings you a pipette and runs to the pet shop to buy formula. You line a shoebox with old sheets and take it in turns waking in the night to feed it. The bird dies, but you both have done all you can.

It is when you realize that this is a memory, decades old, that you are willing to let her go, too.

Illness has turned your bed into a vessel. You use it to sail through your last remaining thoughts. The ability to appreciate what is happening to you is dying, now. You reach what they refer to as the Last Good Day.

Mrs. Hudson fluffs around your room with a duster. She opens the curtains, straightens your sheets, and then holds a cup of tea to your lips. You don't notice that it scalds your tongue. The weighted words you speak are well worth the effort.

'But you're not my…'

'Not your housekeeper, I know, dear. But I am your friend.' She says. You don't think you've ever seen a gaze so kindly before.

'Thank you,'

'Thank _you, _John.'

'Can you send Sherlock in?'

With that last request, you let her go.

And then he's here, standing at your bedside. You've missed him, missed the way the two of you once were. You know that his way of coping involves distancing himself from you, and you forgive him. Forgiveness is the only gift you have left to give.

'Sherlock, tell me what will happen from here.' You know that somewhere in your mind, you know the process of death, but it is such effort to access it.

'Well, you'll loose your appetite completely sometime soon. You'll sleep more and more, and sleep heavier, probably dreamlessly. You might hallucinate a little, but mostly it'll be very peaceful.' You know it pains him to think about this, but you need to hear it. 'You'll be able to respond to us less and less, but you'll still know that we're here. Your motor movements will lessen even more, until you'll finally be unable to move. Your hands and feet will become cold, but the rest of you will stay quite warm. Eventually, you'll slip into a coma, and then you'll die.'

Trust Sherlock to use such a blunt word. 'And it won't hurt?' you question.

'Not for you,' he replies meekly. 'We'll make sure of that.'

'Stay with me, Sherlock. I need you to hold me.'

'I'll be here.'

The fog takes over again. And somewhere in the middle of the mist, you hear it. It's as if he doesn't mean to say it, as if it's a thought that you've managed to grab hold of.

'I love you, John.'

And you try your very hardest, but you're unsure if you get the words out or not.

'I love you too.'

You feel his hand in yours, and it's as you were born holding each other, as if you're never going to let go. It feels _right, _even though all this is so, so wrong.

And although the air in your lung rattles like it is the only thing inside of you, you feel full. And although you will always hold onto him, because he was the most important part of your life, it is time.

Let him go.


End file.
